


Jim Kirk's Rules of Engagement

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: AU, M/M, Star Trek: XI - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for bookaddict43's prompt, “McCoy/Kirk, transporter fear”. Also, I borrowed some stuff from Zombieland (not the zombies). If you've seen the movie, you'll know what stuff. If not . . . haha! For I am a genius, who is super original, yeah, all me, baby. . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jim Kirk's Rules of Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> Beta extraordinare: Vinniebatman  
> Notes/Warnings: AU, set just a few months before the Kobayashi-Maru Incident.

  
Jim's Kirk's First Rule of Blowjobs states: The number of blowjobs received by a man will be inversely proportionate to the quality of blowjobs given by that same man.  
  
  
In layman's terms, the more blowjobs you've received, the better the blowjobs you'll give.  
  
  
It's a sound theory, perfectly logical. But try running it past a Vulcan cadet, and you're apt to get mocked in that condescending, disdainful way they have. They might even mention that if you never address them again regarding such a subject, they'll be less inclined to bring you up on sexual harassment charges.  
  
  
Not that Jim needs some uptight Vulcan to validate what he already knows. He and Bones've been doing the best-forever-friends-with-triple-X-tras thing for six months straight (pun not intended) and Jim's had literally hundreds of opportunities to prove his theory right.  
  
  
Bones is dutifully resigned to his status as lab-rat-slash-sex-toy.  
  
  
This particular blowjob hasn't been going on for very long—only a few minutes, and well before Bones's early-ass alarm goes off, thus well before Bones is actually awake, let alone cognizant—but Bones's heavy hand settles on Jim's head almost immediately, and clenches in his hair from the get go. He's a tugger, and Jim gets off on having his hair tugged. An extremely workable state of affairs.  
  
  
In the sound-proofed dorm room, the only thing to be heard--besides the persistent late fall drizzle, since Jim always cracks the window no matter the weather--is his own wonderfully obscene sucking sounds, and the way Bones's breathing changes from slow and deep to fast and light. The sexy little hitching noises he makes in his throat, like he wants to say Jim's name but just can't quite get it together enough for the part that comes after  _Juh_.  
  
  
It may be the best sound in the universe. Granted Jim hasn't been everywhere.  _Yet_. But. . . .  
  
  
Bones groans like he's about to herniate something, but in a very, very good way-- _really_  starts to tug on Jim's hair, till he sees stars. And that's all the warning Jim gets or needs before he's got a hot mouthful of liquid McCoy. Which he swallows—no point doing this kinda thing in half measures (Jim Kirk's Second Rule of Blowjobs), but especially when one is doing it to Bones (Jim Kirk's Third Rule of Blowjobs, and pretty much every rule after that is more a set of guidelines and how-tos, that are very Bones-specific, and will stay that way. Bones is the only guy Jim's ever been and probably ever will be attracted to)--without pause.  
  
  
Because the one time when he vacillated on the spit-or-swallow issue had ended shortly after the question even became relevant. Seeing Bones on his knees--his eyes closed like he'd been waiting forever to be exactly where he was, like there was nothing else he'd rather be doing--had been . . . a revelation. One that had forever stricken Jim Kirk's Twelfth Rule of Life (In General): ~~Jim Kirk's mouth and another man's dick are mutually exclusive objects in the material universe~~.  
  
  
In fact, it's a little weird, to Jim anyway, just how much he likes every aspect of giving head. _Especially_  the swallowing part.  
  
  
After Bones comes, he simply lays there, body limp and relaxed in a way it almost never is. Jim, feeling justifiably smug, arms come and drool off his face and massages his jaw. Though said massage is hampered by him grinning. Even though Jim is a man of modest dick-sucking talents (he's sloppy, enthusiastic but uncoordinated, and can't deep-throat Bones the way Bones can and does), Bones has a way of making him feel like he's perfected the art of the blowjob. It's for this reason that Jim vows, not for the first time, that he will. Someday soon.  
  
  
He even laughs a little when Jim licks his way up pelvis and abdomen, following the trail of heaven in a reverse of the way he had minutes ago. Lingers at that area between Bones's ribs just to make him do that snorting thing that means he's trying not to giggle, kissing and nuzzling till the hand that's still in his hair really  _yanks_  upward.  
  
  
“Get up here,” Bones orders, his voice still half-asleep and lazy, and Jim's quick to obey. If there's one thing he likes—more than absolutely everything about being with Bones—it's the making out. Jim's been turned into a shameless, dick-sucking, make-out whore. But he's  _Bones_ 's shameless, dick-sucking, make-out whore, so that's okay. And his own morning/come-breath aside, even just kissing Bones is amazing.  
  
  
Jim  _almost_  kinda understands all that namby-pamby, lovey-dovey stuff his girlfriends and girl-friends (and some gay friends) used to go on and on about. True love and soul-mates and all that crap. He doesn't  _believe_  in it, of course, but now he sorta understands that there are indeed kissers and kisses that could inspire such faith.  
  
  
For him, Bones is that kisser, and the post-blowjob kisses are especially inspiring.  
  
  
Jim feels around on the night table for lube . . . which they're almost out of, but Bones being Bones, they never run out completely.  
  
  
 _It's the little details that make a relationship work, and Bones is the undisputed master of the little details,_  Jim muses, breaking the kiss to look into Bones's eyes. Realizes he can't see for shit in the near-pitch black room. “ _Lights at thirty-two percent_.”  
  
  
Bones's eyes are sleepy, dark, and squinting because of the light. They're Jim's favorite eyes ever. They make him feel like he's capable of anything, which is sort of the way Pike looks at him, times a hundred. But that's where this thought train needs to get derailed, pronto, because Pike is almost like a dad, and thinking about even an almost-dad when he's about to fuck his . . . Bones . . . is not the done thing.  
  
  
In fact, it inspires Jim Kirk's First And Only Rule of Thinking About Father Figures Just Before Fucking:  _Don't_.  
  
  
“Mornin',” Bones rumbles, all unguarded, stubble-y smile. His fingers scritch and scratch Jim's scalp, heedless of the gel still in it, gone tacky from sweat, sleep, and repeated tugging.  
  
  
“Mm, mornin', mornin',  _mornin'_  . . . wood,” Jim adds, pushing Bones's right leg up and out and settling on top of him. When his dick slides past balls and perineum, Bones arches up against him like a cat in heat, half hard again on Jim's stomach. “Think ya got another go in ya, old man?”  
  
  
“Asshole. Serve you right if I went back to sleep, but you'd just fuck me, anyway.”  
  
  
“Damn right. Fuck you so good, you'd wake up blind,” Jim says absently, finally sitting up and leaning over enough to really look at the night table. He vaguely remembers not being able to find the lube last night, after getting them both hammered. And they'd definitely had crazy!drunktastic!can't-wait-for-lube-so-let's-just-hump!sex before passing out. But there's no place else the tube'd be but on the night table. They use it far too much to keep it anywhere else, like  _in_  the night table.  
  
  
He knocks both their personal PADDS onto the floor, as well as an empty beer bottle, an unopened bag of M&Ms, and an opened deck of playing cards. Is very careful to shift one of Bones's few framed photos of Joanna out of the path of destruction. No lube behind it, either. “Ah, fuckety-crap! Baby, where's the—ow!”  
  
  
Jim gazes down at Bones in perfect shock. His gaze is returned in a fond-challenging stare that means a certain doctor want it. And  _bad_. This is another theory that's born out by past experience, and the fact that Bones pushes the tube of lube--which is new and fucking  _huge_ \--that he'd whacked Jim on the knee with into his hand.  
  
  
“You're lucky you're so pretty,” he drawls, and smirks. “Since thinkin' clearly  _ain't_  your strong suit. . . .”  
  
  
Jim kisses him quick and hard, then sits back on his heels. Flips the cap open like a man taking the safety off an old-style projectile weapon. “We'll see how strong my suit is when you're coming so hard you can't even speak to scream my name.”  
  
  
“Ah, talk's cheap.” Bones sighs, nonchalant and noticeably hard, hairy and muscle-y . . . very much a  _guy_. A guy who's sexy beyond Jim's ability to currently process with his rational mind, especially at five-thirty in the morning. Nope. There's to be no processing at this time, not when those challenging eyes are watching him with almost clinical detachment. A detachment that's belied by light-rapid breathing and the fact that he's gone from parade-rest to full-attention. “You sure talked a real good game last night, got me all hot an' bothered . . . yet somehow, I went to sleep unfulfilled--”  
  
  
“ _Unfulfilled_?” Jim caps the lube and tosses it at the night table. Misses. Shrugs, and gets himself nice and slippery, gritting his teeth so he doesn't come all over Bones's face and chest. He's discovered that unless specifically requested, that particular move is  _not_  appreciated. “Okay, everything's kinda fuzzy from last night, but even though I didn't  _fulfill_  you, I made sure you came!” Of course he did! Jim Kirk's Third And Non-Negotiable Rule of Humping? Always get  ~~the girl~~ \-- ~~the other guy~~ \--Bones off first. And if possible, more than once. “I made you come before I did!”  
  
  
“Yeah.” Bones grabs one of the pillows—Jim's, of course—and shoves it under his ass, then bends one knee, practically up to his shoulder. Another thing about Bones that'd surprised Jim (oh, so pleasantly) is how freaking  _bendy_  he is. Sure, he looks rigid, and  _can be rigid_  when stressed. But when he's turned on, he'll happily twist and contort himself any way Jim wants for as long as Jim wants. “But you asked, and I quote, 'how'd you like to feel this thick, hard cock in you, Bones? Want me to fuck you aaaallll night long?' To which I replied--”  
  
  
Jim blushes and clears his throat. “You know, you, uh, remember really good for a guy who was drunk off his ass.”  
  
  
Bones lets his other leg fall to the side casually, running his fingers lightly up his thigh. He's won more than one argument exactly this way. “Just because  _you_  get done in by five beers, doesn't mean  _I_  do. Especially not that horrible crap you drink. Although it  _does_  make you entertainingly crass. Like a tenth grader--”  
  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” Still blushing, Jim grabs his dick and gives it a pointed stroke. “Hey, am I actually gonna get to do something with this bad boy, or should I just buy a frame for it and save it as a memento of happier times?”  
  
  
“I'll frame  _you_ ,” Bones murmurs, getting to his knees. He gives Jim, a long, slow tongue-tease of a kiss, while pressing against him all warm and hard and—just perfect. He smells good and tastes good. So good, in fact, that Jim knows he cheated—showered and brushed sometime during the night.  
  
  
Which should make Jim at least a  _little_  self-conscious about his own less-than-springtime-fresh scent, but it just makes him want to get Bones good and dirty again.  
  
  
Finally Bones bats Jim's hand away from his own dick and replaces it with his, giving Jim an ironic, but smoldering look. “I wanna feel this thick, hard cock in me, Jim. I want you to fuck me _all_  mornin' long.”  
  
  
Which doesn't sound nearly as ridiculous when Bones says it  _that_  way. And Bones's hand certainly doesn't  _feel_  ridiculous. It feels like Jim's dick has died and gone to dick-heaven. . . .  
  
  
For a moment, he's at a loss, his entire brain has gone AWOL. But then Jim Kirk's Seventh Rule of Fucking kicks in, and it states: Don't make  ~~her~~  Bones ask twice. Or even once (unless it's for something  _really_  kinky and filthy that'll either make him blush to ask for, or make Jim hard to hear it--or both). In a few minutes, Jim's got Bones stretched and prepared (Jim Kirk's Ninth Rule of Life (In General): ninety percent of a job well done is proper preparation), moaning and groaning and  _grinding_  against him, whispering dirty, improbable things in Jim's ear. When he's not biting it, or sticking his tongue in it.  
  
  
 _My life is pretty awesome,_  Jim spares a moment for revelation, smiling as he noses Bones's hair. Bones uses a no-name brand of two-in-one shampoo/conditioner that smells like a chemical-dump in the bottle, but like autumn leaves in his hair.  
  
  
It isn't much longer before the dirty-talk turns into needy little hitches, and the muscles around Jim's fingers are clenching tight. Finally he growls, and bites down on Jim's shoulder before kissing the spot tenderly. “ _Jim_. You need to start bouncin' my skull off the headboard _yesterday_.”  
  
  
“Yeah. Sorry. Forgot the Seventh Rule. Sorry,” Jim mutters distractedly, because, hello? _Distraction?_  Times a million when Bones rolls his eyes and turns to face the headboard, getting on his hands and knees.  
  
  
He looks over his shoulder, that smoldering gaze back and desperate around the edges. “C'm _on_ , Cadet,” he snaps, and lets his knees slide further apart, arching his back like a freaking porn-star. Jim has to grab his dick--again--to keep this morning from ending like last night. He's a country mile beyond the point where any of his Rules—if he could even remember them—would do him a damn bit of good.  
  
  
Crisis averted, Jim crawls closer and puts one hand on Bones hip, carefully guiding himself  _in_. Because even though they've done this dance often enough that Jim can find his way in the dark (whether with fingers, tongue, or dick. Fresh out of a dead sleep, even) it's still a shock. A wonder of heat and tightness that keeps Jim seesawing back and forth between wanting to just fuck this man hard and fast and make him  _howl_. . . or wanting to draw it out in that  _making love_ way that Jim's never bothered to be good at because he's never before  _wanted_  to make love to anyone. . . .  
  
  
Luckily, his instinct is as unerring where Bones is concerned as it is in every other area of his life. It's never been wrong, and right now it's telling him Bones needs to be rode hard and put away wet.  
  
  
 _Oh, yeah. Batting a thousand_ , Jim thinks when he slides home hard  _and_  fast, and Bones yowls like he's being gutted—in the good way. He hangs his head and bears up under Jim's weight and thrusts, grunting and sliding on the sheets a little, the muscles of his shoulders and back bunching and cording.  
  
  
He calls Jim a 'goddamn frat-boy' between making the most deliciously needy sounds, and he's shivering, even though a fine sheen sweat has sprung up on them both. But he gives as good as he gets, pushing back against Jim like a man defending an opposing point of view.  
  
  
“Jim, God, just. . . . “  
  
  
“Yeah, I know. I will.” And the eerie thing is, he  _does_  know, and  _will._  He  _does_ , faster, harder and more. Jim has a well-earned reputation for being an epic fuck, but it's different with Bones. There's no playbook of old standards to draw on, no method. Lord knows there's no previous experience with other guys to go on--and even if he had such experience, Jim suspects being with Bones would still be going where he's never gone before.  
  
  
Jim is running purely on instinct because Bones is  _Bones_ , and there's no one quite like him. He's. . . .  
  
  
. . . beautiful like this. Even if Jim had the ability to speak, he still wouldn't have the words for how he feels. So even though they're most definitely fucking this morning, rather than making love, Jim leans down and kisses Bones's back and nape. Puts one hand on Bones's for balance and leverage, tightens his other hand on Bones's hip, and changes his angle a little. Keeps on with harder, faster, and more, till Bones isn't meeting each thrust, but being driven by them, one sweaty hand shaking under Jim's, the other on his own dick. Jim wishes he could see it, see the look on Bones's face when his whole body goes still, strung taut like a violin--  
  
  
\--and he comes gasping, like a man surfacing from a heated pool on a cold night. Every muscle in his body, but especially the ones holding Jim, spasm and tighten and it's so fucking  _perfect_. The only thing Jim wants more than to come, is for this to never, ever end. Even when Bones has collapsed to the bed with a satisfied grunt, Jim simply follows him, still thrusting and pushing Bones's legs wider.  
  
  
If he could literally crawl under Bones's skin, he would make Bones his permanent home.  
  
  
“Whatcha . . . goin' for . . . goddamn . . . gold medal?” Bones demands, half-laughing, half-annoyed, but bearing down on Jim's dick like a vise. “Goddamn showoff! C'mon an'  _come_!”  
  
  
And Jim does, mid-laugh, pinning Bones, fingers biting into skin hard enough to bruise. His rhythm's gone all wobbly and he can't stop laughing, though it's more of a breathless, rapid-fire keen. He goes beyond shooting brain matter, to shooting bone marrow, and possibly a little of his soul, and still he's coming—is all but hovering outside his own body, and watching it shake and spasm and thrust while under it, Bones moans and tries to come again, cursing Jim blisteringly. . . .  
  
  
It's wonderful and appalling and hot and beautiful. And like all things, it eventually ends. Jim is deposited back in his own skin and on Bones's back. He's still plenty hard enough to keep fucking Bones on autopilot--for a little while, anyway--but he simply sprawls on Bones like a blanket made of Jim.  
  
  
“Unh. Y'ain't made of fairy-dust, y'know.”  
  
  
“Damn right, 'm not.” Levering himself up a bit on shaky arms, Jim eases out of Bones as carefully as he can, and kisses exactly seven  _sorry_ s into Bones's hair when he hisses a little. “'m a hundred and seventy-nine pounds of prime man-meat, and you love every inch of me.”  
  
  
“Not as much as  _you_  love you every inch of you,” Bones sighs, and Jim grins and flops down on his back. Feels around till he grabs one of his t-shirts off the floor, and cleans himself and Bones off. Tosses it in the general direction of the hamper and misses. But only by six or seven feet, it really doesn't matter. His body's cycling into Afterglow-mode. The only thing that'd make it a perfect moment happens in short order: Bones cuddles up close, all warm skin and soothing hand stroking up and down Jim's chest.  
  
  
The post-coital boogie's never been like this with  _anyone_. In fact, this strange and wonderful new feeling's inspired it's own Jim Kirk's Rule. The first and so far only of its kind: there's no sense messing up something that's perfect as is, with  _thinking_. Or talking. You just don't mess with amazing. Nope.  
  
  
“Mm, you c'n fuck me till my ass falls off, but I'm still not takin' that damned transporter test.“  
  
  
Apparently Bones didn't get the memo about The First Rule of the Afterglow.  
  
  
Jim's frown turns upside down as his ear and neck and shoulder are kissed and nibbled. Now _that_  slots nicely into The Afterglow.  
  
  
“C'mon, Bones, it's a nice morning, we just had the most amazing sex ever . . . can't we just bask until your alarm goes off?”  
  
  
“No, we good and goddamn well can't.” Bones sighs against his neck and the hand running up and down Jim's chest slows. Stops over his stomach. “I know the only reason I woke up to my brain being sucked out via my cock was because you're tryin' to . . . I dunno,  _sex_  me into taking that test.”  
  
  
“Be honest. You wake up to that almost every day because yes, I  _am_  awesome.” Jim hides his face in Bones's hair for a moment and inhales. It's insta-zen. “C'mon, baby, say it . . . I'm an awesome friend.”  
  
  
“Okay. I'm an awesome friend.”  
  
  
“You are  _such_  a dick.”  
  
  
“Pot. Kettle.” Bones kisses his Adam's apple, and rolls away. Onto his back, arms crossed over his chest. Which means Jim's suddenly cold. “Me even goin' down to that place is nothin' but an exercise in futility, since even if I lost my entire mind, I wouldn't be apt to let some idiot engineer named . . . ah, fuck--” more muttered curses as Bones scrabbles on the floor for his PADD, then sits back up, stabbing at the touch-screen. He goes through PADDs fairly quickly ”--lessee . . . ugh. Save me, merciful baby Jesus, some idiot named  _Montgomery Scott_  transport me all over this solar system and back. That is  _not_  the name of someone I want scramblin' around my molecules then attemptin' to  _un_ scramble 'em, let alone send them places that ain't Earth. I like my molecules just where and just the way they are, thanks.”  
  
  
“Hmm. So do I,” Jim soothes, snatching the PADD and tossing it in the direction of the shirt. It's a measure of the amazing powers of The Afterglow that Bones merely rolls his eyes and doesn't glare. And he definitely doesn't prevent Jim from sprawling half across him: leg over thighs, arm over chest.  
  
  
It's not as good as good as spooning (Jim Kirk's Only Rule of Spooning: only with Bones), but almost. Bones's arms come up around Jim's neck, and they stare into each other's eyes for several moments. Then Jim grins. “Hell, gim _me_  another few minutes, Dr. McCoy, and I'll scramble those sexy-ass molecules good for ya.”  
  
  
“What little mind you have is astonishingly one-track.”  
  
  
“Guilty as charged.” Jim licks Bones's collarbone and up his throat. To chin and lips, and that last is eminently a place worth making oneself at home. So he does . . . for a little while, anyway. Then it's  ~~Jim Kirk's First Rule of The Afterglow~~. "Regardless. You're taking that test, Dr. McCoy. You're letting that Scott guy transport you to and from each base in the solar system and you _will_  ace that test.” Jim searches Bones's eyes, and tries to exude reassurance. Going on the look Bones is giving him, the exuding isn't going well. “Look,  _everyone_  takes the test, Bones; you'll be fine. It's easier than riding in a shuttle."  
  
  
“Which ain't sayin' much.”  
  
  
"You're going to wow the proctor and leave all those other losers in the fucking dust."   
  
  
"'In the dust?' Jim, its a pass/fail test. We don't get ranked, we simply pass, or fail."  
  
  
“And  _you're_  gonna pass.”  
  
  
“Oh, am I?” Bones gives him The Eyebrow, and Jim has to kiss it, because that eyebrow? Is the reason they got together in the first place. If it's possible to love anything more than he loves Bones, it'd be that Eyebrow. Though the confused, almost defenseless look Bones gives him whenever he kisses The Eyebrow—especially now—would be a close runner-up. “Says who?”  
  
  
“Says I, James Tiberius Kirk, your future captain.”  
  
  
“Hah! We'll all be catchin' bacon with butterfly nets before that happens. You've been hangin' around Pike and Archer too much,” Bones grumbles, but Jim knows it's just Bones being Bones. The man has almost no respect for Starfleet brass, but Archer, and Pike—to a lesser extent—are two of the relatively few exceptions.  
  
  
Jim does some eyebrowing of his own. Kisses the tip of Bones's pointy nose just to make him wriggle it. “Take the test, McCoy. Or else.”  
  
  
Wriggle-wriggle goes Bones's nose. “Or else what?”  
  
  
“Or else . . . I'll wash out of Starfleet on a Refusal to Comply.”  
  
  
“Like  _hell_  you are!” He sounds almost offended by the notion.  
  
  
“Well, if you can't pass this test, you won't be assigned to  _any_  ship, for any reason. You might wind up working dirt-side, or even discharged from duty. But either way, I lose my best friend.” Jim sits up, straddling Bones's thighs and crossing his arms. Bones looks up at him, tired-looking and sort of miserable, and Jim feels bad, he really, really does, but. . . . “You think being in Starfleet matters to me more than you do?”  
  
  
“I  _know_  it does,” Bones says softly, smiling, and he puts his hands on Jim's forearms before he can deny it. Strangely, he looks  _less_  miserable, now. “It  _does_ , Jim, and that's how it should be. One of the few things about you that doesn't annoy the crap outta me is that incredible, Jim Kirk-dedication to a cause and the sense of purpose you radiate like goddamn heat-energy. I know  _exactly_  how much Starfleet means to you, darlin', and I ain't about to be the reason you give it up.”  
  
  
Jim's left eyebrow joins his right, but on the inside? His psyche's apparently having a sex change, because all he wants to do is hug and kiss and cuddle Bones. To lay there and bask in that  _darlin'_ , since Bones normally doesn't indulge in nicknames or sentimentality. At least not where Jim can catch him at it. “Good. Then you're taking the test.”  
  
  
“God _damn_ it, just because you're in Starfleet doesn't mean  _I_  have to be!”  
  
  
“Yeah, it kinda does if we're gonna keep being together like this.” Which is the crux of the matter: how badly does Bones want this thing they've got going? As badly as Jim does? Maybe.  
  
  
But then again, maybe not. Bones is passionate about  _everything_ , in his own angry way. That makes it difficult to tell just how invested he is in their . . . well, relationship.  
  
  
There's really only one way to find out for sure, and unfortunately, Jim Kirk's Eighth Rule of Life (In General)--play it close to the vest, be it love, war, or any of that gray space in between—makes that way unlikely to happen. Jim could no more plainly ask Bones if what they have means anything to him than he could put a gun to his own head. And if what they have together _doesn't_  mean anything to Bones, it might  _be_  putting a gun to his head to find out.  
  
  
Bones tugs on Jim's arms till Jim leans down again, bracing his hands to either side of Bones's head. Like most of their kisses, they meet each other halfway, and don't stop till their lungs demand it, and Jim leans his forehead against Bones's. Tries to imagine the rest of his time at the Academy without  _this_ , and can't. Doesn't  _even_  try to imagine the rest of his Starfleet career, or his life without it. “Bones, you  _have_  to pass the test. I  _could not_  be more serious about this.”  
  
  
“Listen to me, Jim,” Bones begins gently, cupping Jim's face in his hand, his thumb brushing Jim's cheek. “Even if I got scrambled and unscrambled eight times without running out of the building screaming, there's no guarantee we'd ever be stationed together. That we'd ever see each other except on leaves—many of which we wouldn't even get at the same time. You know how it is.”  
  
  
“Yeah, I know.” When Bones tries to kiss him again, Jim sits up, big smile on his face, though so false it feels like it might crack. And it must not look too kosher, either, because Bones is giving him a searching look. “But Starfleet has provisions for enlisted couples, you know. Preferential assignments and flexible leave. Hell, I was conceived on the Kelvin, and if not for what happened, I'd have spent the first few months of my life shipboard.”  
  
  
Bones's hands settle on his knees, sliding up and down, attempting to soothe without knowing what's wrong or why, only that something  _is_  wrong. He's still giving Jim that searching look. “Yeah . . . but your folks were married.”  
  
  
Jim clears his throat, and almost adds a casual  _oh, yeah, I forgot,_  but he can't quite do it. Out the window, the overcast dawn is hinting at a crisp and sunny day by midmorning, the faint hints of chilly purple tuning into a warmer lilac-and-pink, as if the sun decided to say  _fuck it_ , and start the day a little early.  
  
  
Point being, if ever there's a day to find a yellow-streak hidden within oneself, today just isn't that day.  
  
  
Taking a breath, he looks back into Bones's eyes steadily. “Yeah, they were. How 'bout that?” And it takes a few seconds, but Bones's eyes widen in realization. Then narrow in incredulous doubt. Between that and the mussed hair he looks younger than Jim, freaking  _goofy_ , and just plain adorable.  
  
  
“You did  _not_  just propose to me,” he informs Jim, crossing his arms and glaring at him like he just piddled on the carpet. “Clearly I'm either goin' mad, goin' deaf, or both, because I didn't just hear what I think I heard.”  
  
  
“Oh, I think maybe you  _did_  hear what you thought you heard,” Jim says, then grins as charmingly as his face'll allow, which is a  _lot_  of damn charm. Quite the feat, considering his heart kind of feels like it's trapped in a slowly closing vise. But despite the effort, Bones does  _not_  look charmed. “I mean . . . I'm gonna lay my cards down, okay?”  ~~Jim Kirk's Eighth Rule of Life (In General)~~. “I've never . . . okay, see, the thing is . . . I'm kinda, a little madly in love with you.”  
  
  
Those dark eyes open so wide, they might just fall out of their sockets, but they're surely only mirroring Jim's own. He couldn't feel more frightened or exhilarated if he'd just done an atmo-dive sans suit. Oh, sure, he's tried before to say the l-word, and never gotten past that initial  _luh_ -sound. Once he even turned a  _Bones, I love you,_  into  _Bones, I luh—levitate objects with my mind_ , at the last moment.  
  
  
(Bones'd given him a suspicious look, and had to be talked out of sedating him and dragging him to the Starfleet Medical complex. And that was only after he'd chased Jim around their room with a hypo for five minutes, apologizing and telling him it'd be for his own good.)  
  
  
Bones blinks, and instead of looking touched and happy, like any of the hundreds of women that Jim's never said it to might have, he simply looks put out, and like his own worst fears have been confirmed.  
  
  
“'A little madly in love', huh? Well, you're half right.” Bones covers his face for a moment, running his hands through his hair. “Jesus, Jim, of the two of us, I thought at least  _you_ 'd have the sense not to go draggin' love into this.”  
  
  
“You thought wrong, buddy.” Jim laughs and shrugs, unable to say anything else around his held breath, and his heart. When Bones scrunches his face up like he's got a mouthful of fruitcake, Jim looks away. At anything and everything in his field of vision that isn't Bones.  
  
  
“There isn't maybe a small chance you're just trying to soft-sell me into staying so I can sit the damn Kobayashi-Maru with you again this spring. . . ?”  
  
  
“If you really think I'd lie about loving you just for the Kobayashi-fucking-Maru, then you don't know me at all,” Jim says evenly, suddenly feeling numb and hollow. Like there's nothing in him anymore, and if Bones lets go of him, he might just float away. Right out into that grape-fruit dawn, and into space. “I said it because it happens to be true, and I don't wanna lose that to a hundred million light-years when I graduate. Don't wanna lose the only person I've ever loved to stupid fucking cowardice--his or mine.”  
  
  
There's no reply to that—not that Jim expected one. The silence draws out, even though he can feel Bones's eyes on him, like picks in a lock, and he wants nothing more than to be somewhere private. Anywhere that isn't  _here_ , so he can finally start to feel . . . whatever it is he's gearing up to feel, but can't bear to let anyone, even Bones, see.  
  
  
Eyes still averted, he pushes Bones's hands off his legs, his mind empty and absolutely still. He's never suffered a broken heart before, but he's heard stories. He knows he'll be lucky if this numbness last long enough to get him out of the room. And it probably won't, as ungainly as he feels all of a sudden. He nearly falls off the bed trying to climb off of Bones, who swears, and catches him with those strong, gentle doctor's hands, and that make the facade of numb Jim's got going crack straight down the middle.  
  
  
“Wait--” When Jim swats at Bones's hands, they feint, and latch onto his wrists. And they're  _not_ letting go. There's a pretty effective way to break this particular hold, and Jim is normally passably good at it. He just can't, for the life of him, remember what it  _is_. “Jim,  _stop_. Listen to me--”  
  
  
Jim Kirk's First and Second Rules of Love:  _Avoid at all costs._  And,  _if unavoidable, maintain the gameface until the feeling passes_. “Take the test or don't, Bones. I should hit the shower.”  
  
  
“I love you, too,” Bones says softly, and his voice is small and scared-sounding . . . not at like it _usually_  sounds, competent, gruff, and sexily no-nonsense. Jim shakes his head and stops struggling. He can't observe Jim Kirk's Third Rule of of Love-- _if you can't be happy in love, be the winner at it_ \--and struggle at the same time.  
  
  
“Fuck, you don't have to say it just because I did, buddy. You were right, I  _shoulda_  kept the l-word out of it.” He can see the pulse at both their wrists, his own beating much faster than Bones's, despite the weird calm that's settled over him.  _Rule Two, Rule Two, Rule Two._  “Don't worry. I'm not some weepy girl who'll fall apart just because her boyfriend doesn't love her.”  
  
  
Bones squeezes his wrists till Jim has to look at him, if only to glare. But before he can even get a decent glare going, he's pole-axed by what he sees on Bones's face and in his eyes: that earnest, almost angry, quintessential  _Bones_ -look. “I didn't say y'were. And anyway . . . your boyfriend _does_  love you, even if he's got a damned idiot-way of sayin' so.”  
  
  
Heart beating way too fast, way too suddenly, and for a whole new reason, Jim leans closer, and Bones's hands slide up his arms, no longer restraining, just holding. But even now, Jim can't tell if what he's seeing is real, or just what he wants to see. He's never been one for self-delusion, but then he's never been in love before.  
  
  
“Don't fuck around with me on this, Bones. Don't say the l-word unless you mean it, like, nine hundred and thirty percent, okay?” Jim whispers, placing his own hands on Bones's chest, tugging gently on chest hair. “I need you to be sure about how you feel: do you love me?”  
  
  
“What? You mean 'kinda' and 'madly'? Yes, I do. I  _love_  you. More than I meant to, and more than is wise . . . but I love you.” Bones smiles a little, looking a bit seasick, but a bit pleased with himself, too. “Though I'd have to be batshit insane to  _marry_  you—you realize this, don't you? I mean, you can't even cook! You'd be a  _terrible_  wife!”  
  
  
Jim's face is stretching in what has to be the hugest grin ever worn by a human. It's easily a Denobulan-sized grin, and it feels huge and strange, but it also feels fine. That numb doesn't so much crack to pieces as disintegrate into a fine powder,. The maelstrom that was behind it, turbulent and deep, is gone. “Agreed. Which is why you'll be the wife.”  
  
  
Bones rolls his eyes again, looking more like himself: grumpy, with a chance of laughter. “But you're shorter, vainer, and so much prettier.”  
  
  
“Ah, but you, my dear Bones, take it up the ass. I think that makes you the wife.”  
  
  
“Oh, yeah?” Bones wrestles a laughing Jim down to the bed and reverses their positions. “If you think that's a prerequisite for being the wife, then you ain't ever been married,” he says crisply. “And for the record, just 'cause I let you pitch, it doesn't make me the wife. But the fact that you're naggin' my damn ear off about marriage right after we finished screwin'--no goddamn respect for the afterglow--that definitely makes you the girlfriend.”  
  
  
“What nagging?” Jim runs his finger up Bones dick, hoping for signs of life. All he gets for his troubles is a smacked hand. “I was . . . motivationally speaking.”  
  
  
“Says my pretty little girlfriend.”  
  
  
“Says your manly, well-hung fiance.”  
  
  
“Jackass. I haven't said yes, so quit lookin' smug and insufferable.”  
  
  
Jim makes his most innocent face, which admittedly isn't very. “Please, I look sexed-up and _gorgeous_.”  
  
  
Bones huffs, but seems a little flabbergasted. Happy, but definitely flabbergasted. As if there's a part of him that doesn't understand just how they got to this point, and if one or both of them may have sustained a head injury. “You know, there really is no guarantee we'd be assigned together, even if we get hitched. And that's assuming I take that damn test, which is a hell of a lot to assume.”  
  
  
“Bones--”  
  
  
“Jim.” Bones cuts him off with a word and a  _look_. “I love you, alright? A good deal more than a little, a good deal more than kinda.” Which makes Jim feel as if he's glowing. Literally glowing, like a small sun. Or a quasar, because his head's spinning, too. Far faster than it ever has, and he doesn't know what to do with himself beside grin up at Bones like he's high.  
  
  
“Hell, and lovin' you's not so much a feelin' as a world-view. Doesn't leave much room for anythin' else. So the idea of you warpin' off to far-flung galaxies without me to keep an eye on you makes me feel queasy and depressed.” Bones shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment, before leaning down till his nose brushes Jim's. His eyes are so close, they may as well be the whole universe. “I promise I'll try, okay? For you. But if I can't go through with it, Jim. . . .”  
  
  
“You can.” Jim says, and with a little effort, that Eskimo kiss becomes a real kiss. The kind that ends with them laying on their sides, and some very nice, yet fairly unambitious full frontal contact. “You can and you  _will_.”  
  
  
A warm, gusty sigh on Jim's shoulder wends its way neckward. “Of course I will.” When it comes to good, old-fashioned necking Bones is a heavy-weight champeen. And he can shimmy like no one's business . . . but Jim's a man with a mission and refuses to be side-tracked. For more than a few minutes.  
  
  
A few freaking awesome minutes during which his dick strives valiantly to get into a fully upright position again.  
  
  
(Not that this is a  _common_  problem, but after a night of drinking, part of a morning putting his back into Bones  **hardcore** -style, plus the weird, shaky little roller-coaster of unrequited love he'd been on briefly, little Jim's justifiably tuckered out.) “Promise me you'll try.”  
  
  
“'Course I promise to  _try_.” Which wouldn't inspire confidence if this weren't Bones. But Leonard McCoy is nothing, if not a man of his word, however ungraciously given. “I'll try my best, and then some. But if I  _can't_ \--”  
  
  
“If you can't, then we'll be hitting the want ads together for a new place to live and new careers.” Jim turns his face and kisses Bones's temple. “And you should know, that I'm pretty much shit at whatever I turn my hand to that isn't boosting cars, so you'd better pass, okay?”  
  
  
“Jim--” Bones groans and rolls away from Jim, onto his side. Undeterred, Jim simply spoons up close behind him and kisses the nape of his neck, and his shoulder.  
  
  
“ _Okay_?”  
  
  
Bones makes a frustrated noise, but lets Jim hold him—though he smacks Jim's hand away when it goes right for his dick again. “I just came twice in one hour, Jim. Let's  _not_  try for three.”  
  
  
“Only once for me.” Jim pushes his half hard dick against Bones's ass, trying for two-thirds. “Who knows, maybe I can  _fuck_  the nerves outta you.”  
  
  
“Hah! That completely different reality you live in must be awful nice, this time of year.”  
  
  
“It's spectacular. It'd be even better if you lived there with me full-time. As my loving wife.”  
  
  
“Not even in a completely made up reality, would I be the wife in our completely made up marriage.” Bones sounds grouchy, but doesn't tell Jim to stop. Even reaches back to stroke Jim's hip. It's more of a soothing stroke, than a sexy stroke, but it feels really, unbelievably good.  
  
  
“I think you just might. Be the wife, after all--” Jim says, though it's mostly yawn, and despite his wriggling, half-hard is . . . well, not losing ground, but not gaining any, either. Which means he's apt to wake up ragingly horny, and alone because Bones has a shift in Medical. Life? Is  _so_  not fair today. But. . . . “I'm feelin' lucky in love.”  
  
  
“Hah!  _Lights at ten percent_. When've either of us ever been that?” Bones scoffs, and leans over the side of the bed to drag the coverlet up from the floor. “Make yourself useful,” he mutters, as the room goes gently, gently murky. He shoves some of the coverlet Jim's way, and though it takes a minute, they're soon covered.  
  
  
It's time, it would seem, to  _snuggle_.  
  
  
(Jim Kirk's First Rule of Snuggling: it grows on you.)  
  
  
A few minutes of silent, toasty snuggling and nuzzling—Bones throws off ridiculous amounts of heat. It's like cuddling with a small reactor—and though Jim really can't get enough of the way Bones feels and smells, the tickle of his hair and the throb of pulse and blood wherever their bodies touch . . . sleep's starting to seem like an impossible idea. Not as long as his dick's attached.  
  
  
“Are you . . .  _sniffing_  me?” Bones asks, as if certain he's imagining things. Jim closes his eyes and inhales.  
  
  
“Mmhm. You smell good enough to eat.” Why yes, Jim  _is_  humping his fiance. But luckily said fiance's pretty used to that, having been woken up in the middle of the night by it many,  _many_ times.  
  
  
“And you're ridiculous.” Bones chuckles, and Jim can feel it in on a molecular level. Half becomes two-thirds, and he slides his hand to Bones's hip and grinds with intent.  
  
  
“ _Am_  I ridiculous? Or am I the most amazing man who ever lived?”  
  
  
Jim can actually hear that eye-roll. “You're a goddamn sex-fiend, is what—my ass really  _is_  about to fall off.”  
  
  
“Oh, no. You're going to that test even if I have to wheel you there. You,  _and_  your broken ass,” Jim says, his voice tight as he strokes himself at light-speed, eyes squinched shut and face pressed to Bones's shoulder. He's so close, he can't  _not_  try. “Later, I can swing by Medical during your lunch break for my blood test. I already, um, filed our Intent to Form A Domestic Union paperwork on FleetNet--”  
  
  
“When?!”  
  
  
“Um . . . not long ago.” Only three months back. And Bones's signature? Insanely illegible, and thus not at all hard to forge. “Anyway, this time tomorrow morning, we could be watching the sunrise as a married couple.”  
  
  
Just the thought of which is enough to turn three-quarters into superbingojackpot!hard.  
  
  
“I haven't said ye-- _damnit, Jim!_ ” Bones squawks when Jim gets a knee between his legs, and pushes two fingers into him. He's still stretched, still slick, still fluttery-tight--truly dick-heaven, if ever such a wonderful place could be said to exist. “I haven't said yes! To  _this_  or to marrying you!”  
  
  
“But you haven't said no. To either.” Jim fights with every part of his being not to just drive himself  _in_ , dick first, as far as he can go, and keep pounding away till he comes. But there's a time and place for that (like twenty minutes ago, in this very bed) and it's not now. Not when Bones, is this close to saying yes. Although . . . there is Jim Kirk's Eighth Rule of Winning Arguments With Your  ~~Special Lady~~  Fiance: Find the  ~~G-spot~~  prostate early, and stimulate  ~~often~~ on every thrust. . . .  
  
  
Jim mentally bookmarks that page in his Rules Book, and removes his fingers as carefully as he didn't shove them in. Rolls onto his back and crosses his arms. Pitches a tent under the coverlet and thinks zen thoughts. Classic cars with old-fashioned combustible engines. Atmo-diving. That insanely hot cadet from Orion—the one with the curly red hair.  
  
  
Threesome with Bones and the insanely hot cadet from Orion with the curly red--  
  
  
\--Jim opens his eyes and stares up at a ceiling he can't see.  
  
  
“You stopped.” Bones sounds like he might be gritting his teeth and Jim can't tell if it's a question or a statement, so he treats it like the former.  
  
  
“I don't wanna give you any ammunition to say no to the marriage thing.”  
  
  
“Stubborn ass. You don't do anything by halves, do you?” Now Bones sounds pissed off. Predictable he  _ain't_.  
  
  
“Yeah, I am, and no, I don't. Not when it's something I really want.” Speaking of  _really want_  . . . Jim really wants to ignore his dick, but Bones's ass is like . . .  _dick-nip_. Irresistible, and liable to make him do crazy things for want of it. “And I  _really_  want you.”  
  
  
“Clearly. 'S why I'm layin' here by my lonesome while you poke a damn hole in the blanket.”  
  
  
“Look,  _you said_  you didn't want--”  
  
  
“Shut up, Jim,” Bones whispers, and whips the coverlet off them, rolling over to face Jim. Then his hand's on Jim's dick, firm and take-charge, warm and absolutely wonderful.  
  
  
Jim Kirk's Fifth Rule of Rejection (for every door that closes, a window opens) has never seemed more applicable than at this moment. This crazy moment, with his crazy boyfriend, with whom he's crazy in love. “Oh . . . oh,  _fuck_  . . . I thought--”  
  
  
“Didn't we already agree thinkin' ain't your strong suit?” Bones kisses Jim's throat, and chest, and bites his nipple. He doesn't break skin, but . . . almost. It's good, freaking  _fantastic_  stuff. “You drive me crazy, and not just in the good way, you know? I can't imagine that'd change for better  _or_  worse if we were married. . . .”  
  
  
It's nearly impossible to keep track of what he's thinking, let alone what he's saying, when Bones does that thing with his thumb, dragging it slowly back and forth against the head of Jim's dick. “I'm—yeah, keep goin', keep goin', don't . . .  _oh_ , yeah--consistent like that.”  
  
  
“Mm. You and a broken clock. Hurry up and come, so we c'n get some shut-eye, pervert.”  
  
  
“Oh, Bones, you romantic son of a--” Jim gasps, then closes his eyes and comes all over Bones's hand, swearing and bucking his hips. And Bones really  _is_  a romantic, kissing Jim softly throughout, saying something that sounds a lot like  _I love you, I love you._  
  
  
Then Jim's just floating in hazy, warm, comfortable darkness. Just for an eternity or two. Then that darkness slowly lightens, and he realizes dawn's no longer just threatening, it's here. And Bones is here, in his arms, stubble-y face on Jim's shoulder.  
  
  
The Afterglow? Eminently baskable, and so Jim totally blames lack of sleep for his flagrant violation of its First Rule.  
  
  
“I love you,” he whispers in Bones's hair, squeezing him closer and tighter, till Bones grunts and mutters about giving him a purple-nurple if Jim doesn't quit tryin' to suffocate him. But then he adds: “I love you, too.”  
  
  
“Then say yes.” Jim Kirk's Second Rule of Life (In General)? Never hesitate to press a clear advantage. “We love each other, and we wanna be together. I mean, you wanna  _be_  with me, right?  
  
  
“You know I do.” A soft breath ghosts across his tingly-achy right nipple, and being turned on right now kinda  _does_  hurt. Not just his dick, but all over. However, it's a hurt Jim could get used to. “Even if I could imagine my life Jim-free, I damn sure don't wanna.” Bones's scratches Jim's chest like he expects him to purr. Then he drags the coverlet back up over them. “Listen, if I do this transporter thing without fuckin' it up, or pissin' off this Scott-person . . . I'll consider your proposal.”  
  
  
Jim's brain is in the stratosphere, but thankfully his mouth is on autopilot. “Good deal! Hey, could you clear your schedule for this evening from about 7:30 till 8:30?” he yawns again, a real jaw-cracker. “Thanks. And hey, don't forget to wake me up before you go-go.”  
  
  
“Hmm . . . the hell I'll wake you up. You don't have a single goddamn place to be today, so you're gonna be  _here_ , catchin' up on sleep. In fact, if I come back to this room and you're not unconscious and snoring, I'll hypo you.” He would, too. It wouldn't be the first time. “And what're we doing at 7:30 this evening that's so important?”  
  
  
Jim snuffles contentedly in Bones's hair like a sleepy piglet. It really smells incredible. "You take such good care of me . . . such a good little wife. . . ."  
  
  
“Look, if anyone's the wife—stop distractin' me, goddamnit, what's happenin' at 7:30?”  _Now_ Bones sounds suspicious, and he's tensing like he's going to sit up, which means he'll be upping the lights, and there'll be a whole  _rant_ , and it's so much for The Afterglow, once Bones gets a good head of steam going.  
  
  
Stroking Bones's shoulder, Jim bites his lip, then takes the plunge. “Archer said he'd be glad to make us legal in the eyes of the Federation.”  
  
  
Nearly a minute of silence during which Jim can all but hear the wheels in Bones's head turning. Time for a little more distraction—Jim Kirk's Thirteenth Rule of Life (In General): A distraction well-timed, is a distraction well-played. “Hey, wouldja consider taking my last name when we're married?”  
  
  
“No, I will  _not_!” A full minute of spluttering, and Bones  _doesn't_  sit up (at least not all the way), nor does he up the light level. But Jim has no doubt it's a close thing. “And don't you  _dare_  try to gloss over the fact that not only are you dragoonin' me into this marriage, but that you conned that sweet old man—that  _decorated war hero_  into bein' your accomplice!”  
  
  
“What con? Who conned? I didn't con!” Jim pshaws, rolling them both onto their sides like before. Big spoon and Little spoon. Jim may be shorter (and vainer and so much prettier) but he's always been the Big Spoon in their relationship, and from night one, Bones just couldn't resist being his Little Spoon. He doesn't resist now, though before he rolls over he  _does_  wreak his petty vengeance by pinching Jim's nipple freaking  _hard_ : the threatened Purple Nurple. “Ow! Damnit! I can't help it if the old guy's so . . . proactive! I merely mentioned to him in passing that I might be looking to get married soon, possibly tonight, and he volunteered to do the honors.” Only after many evenings of subtle badgering and offers to walk D'Artagnan any time, day or night. “Hand to God, Bones! He said if I was finally gonna make an honest man of my, uh, 'grumpy doctor', he'd be  _honored_  to hitch us.”  
  
  
“Uh-huh. I'll just bet.”  
  
  
“He did—he really said that. Word for word.” (This is actually true. Only Archer had been less happy-go-lucky, regarding tone, and much more it's-about-time.  _Life's too short for cowardice, Jim. At least when it comes to love. Sometimes, if you don't speak now, you'll be holding your peace forever.” Archer's smile had turned pained and distant for a moment, before disappearing all together, and Jim was tempted to ask . . . but didn't. “If you're finally going to make an honest man of that grumpy doctor of yours, then I'd be honored to put the seal on that deal. But I'm no spring chicken, so don't wait too long to ask him.”  
  
  
And somewhere in that wrinkly, great-grandfatherly face, there'd been a stern glare. Jim was sure of it._)  
  
  
Bones settles back his arms, muttering and grumbling, and Jim turns his face up for a kiss—which Bones mutters and grumbles through. At least until Jim  _really_  turns the magic on. Then Bones goes all pliant and accommodating and  _submissive_  in Jim's arms.  
  
  
He can't help but think that Archer, always a swift old dude, had been absolutely right. Again. Who dares, wins, and Jim? Has so  _much_  to win, if he can keep being fearless.  
  
  
“You defy description, James Tiberius Kirk,” Bones says with resignation, but warmly too. Like a man who's . . . happy, however unwillingly. He  _wants_  to be worn down, and Jim intends to keep on wearing. Kisses Bones's earlobe, then catches it between his teeth and worries it like a terrier with a chew toy. That gets him a laugh and a swat on the leg before Bones rolls onto his side again. “Though the word  _puppy_  comes readily to mind, all of a sudden.”  
  
  
“Does that mean you wanna rub my tummy?” Jim's dick is too tired and happy for all but the most sedate glee at being pressed against Bones's ass. And this time, when Jim goes for  _Bones's_ dick, it's purely a possessive hold, and one Bones's doesn't discourage, though he says:  
  
  
“No, but it may mean I wanna get you fixed.”  
  
  
“Ouch!” Jim wiggles around till he's got their bodies perfectly slotted together for maximal sleeping comfort. Then absently strokes Bones (with intent) just because he can. He can't be touching Bones's dick and  _not_  trying to get it hard. “Hey, speaking of my name . . .  _Leonard Kirk_ has such a  _classy_  ring to it. Sorta elegant, I think--”  
  
  
“ _Good morning_ , Jim.” Another audible eye-roll, and Jim kisses Bones's hair, squeezing him extra tight. Silently promises them both that he will be fearless and relentless until this thing that they have--the snark, the sex, the Big and Little Spoons--is binding. He will  _not_  be Archer's age, and look back with regret at the-one-that-got-away. Even if he and Bones get physically separated by space, time, or death . . . they'll still be permanently tied to each other in a way no one can sever.  
  
  
 _Jim Kirk's First Rule of Engagement: faint heart doesn't win fair doctor,_  he thinks, but says, “I'm being serious. You could even, like, hyphenate it if you want: Leonard McCoy-Kirk. But that sounds, and let's not mince words here, lame.”  
  
  
"Jim-darlin' . . . if I wind up with Transporter Psychosis, you'll be the first person I murder.” Bones removes Jim's restless hand from his dick and twines their sticky fingers together, bringing their hands up to his chest to rest just above his heart. “The  _very_  first. I want you to know that."  
  
  
Smiling, Jim tucks his face into the curve of Bones's neck and shoulder and closes his eyes. If Bones is already thinking up diseases and syndromes he might wind up with as a result of the transporter test, it's a done deal. “I love you, too, baby.”  
  
  
Jim Kirk's Second Rule of Engagement? Always be a gracious winner.  
  
  



End file.
